A timely kindness from the TSA in Denver

As I stood in the Denver airport waiting to go through security, I tried to discern which agent looked the friendliest. Was it the middle-aged bald guy on the right? The woman with the glasses and orange frizzy hair? Or how about the pudgy officer with the beard? With the line snaking back seemingly the length of the Rockies, it wasn’t exactly easy to for me to tell.

It was the week before Christmas in 2010, and I’d been visiting my youngest brother in Colorado Springs. It was the second time I’d made the trip in as many weeks, and he was gravely ill. After shuttling between the hospital and his home in Mountain Shadows, an affluent neighborhood below Pike’s Peak where “For Sale” signs dotted the bare yards, I was desperate to get home to Los Angeles.

The dislocating sprawl of the prairie, the endless beige housing tracts and strip malls were starting to get to me. I could easily find a church or a Starbuck’s or a Hooter’s, but it was hard to find a temple or a café or an art gallery. I needed the centering effect of palm trees, the Hollywood Hills, and the soothing horizon of the Pacific.

The avid religious atmosphere of the place was also starting to spook me. “The Springs,” as locals call this proud military town, is ground zero of course to the Christian evangelical movement. In reference, I assume, to its divine setting, it is also known as “the city above the clouds.”

After renting a car in Denver, I’d driven the 70 odd miles to my brother’s. Shortly after passing the Air Force Academy, I noticed a sign by the side of the highway noting that I’d entered James Dobson’s empire, Focus on the Family Visitor Center, as if it were your typical tourist attraction. As it happens, my brother’s family belongs to New Life Church, the notorious mega-church founded by former pastor Ted Haggard. Because I’m a liberal Episcopalian and my husband is Jewish — and thus apparently barred from heaven — it’s a topic I naturally try to avoid. Although we’ve always gotten along, my sister-in-law still hopes to convert me. Before I left, she urged me to accept Jesus Christ as my savior, and reassured me that my brother would have a “Christian burial.”

For the moment, though, I was less worried about my salvation than with whether I might wind up in TSA purgatory. Somewhere at LAX, I’d lost my
driver’s license. So now I didn’t have a photo I.D.

Should I get out my credit cards? I wondered. That had worked fine when I’d gone through security at LAX. But then the agent who waved me through was the same guy I’d confessed to losing my license. “I must have left it when I checked my bag,” I said, trying not to sound too frantic. “Can I go see if it’s there?”

But, alas, it had vanished. So when I came through the line again, I veered toward the same agent. Now, with the avalanche of holiday travelers, there was no guarantee the TSA officers would be nearly as accommodating and nice. Especially given the tougher new security rules, and their reputation as stupid, surly and inept, as lecherous gropers who felt up babies and old ladies alike.

I began to sweat under my layers of winter clothes. If I whipped out my credit cards, would that make me seem too prepared? Like I was trying to deflect suspicion? I could just imagine the officer scanning me up and down, Is she a terrorist? In my jeans, college-age daughter’s peacoat, and my glasses perched on my head, I didn’t think I fit the profile of an underwear bomber. But then, what does one look like?

“Oh, God,” I shuddered. I’m named for my late Oklahoma grandmother, but Middle Easterners sometimes assume I’m of Arabic descent. But maybe someone bred in the American heartland wouldn’t connect the dots?

To still my nerves, I checked out the other travelers. Mostly there were families, college students in hoodies, and moms with antsy young children. A few rows back a willowy blonde was nursing her son. She looked notably blasé, like breastfeeding in front of hundreds of strangers was no big deal. How marvelous, I thought. When I was a new mom 20 years ago, the sight of my son latched onto my breast in public often drew hostile looks.

I thought of taking out my camera. Denver has one of the loveliest architectural ceilings of any airport I’ve ever seen. Built to resemble the magnificent Rockies, its soaring white peaks float above the prairie like a heavenly mirage. Although it was bone-gray outside, the light streaming down was as yellow as a daisy. But then it occurred to me: if I wanted to be inconspicuous, it probably wasn’t smart to be shooting photos of the airport.

Finally, I was at the front. I took a deep breath, checked out the agents again, and picked. “The bald guy with the oval face.” He was the only one who smiled and chatted with passengers.

I showed him my boarding pass and credit cards, explaining my predicament. “You know I can’t let you through without a photo I.D,” he said, trying to look mean. For a second my heart froze, but then I gathered myself. “Oh, that’s not true,” I said sweetly. He was kidding, but then pointed me to another agent standing off to the side.

She was tall with ivory skin and strawberry blonde hair, probably in her mid-40s. In a neutral voice, she asked me several questions. Where had I been traveling? What was the purpose of my visit? Where was I from?

She perused my documents. “Do you have any other I.D., like a health insurance card?”

After checking it, she asked if I had anything else. I rifled through my wallet, trying not to look rattled.

“Um, no, I don’t. Oh wait, how about my AARP card?”

She stared at me. She stared at the card. Then she stared at me again. Now I was really nervous.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she finally said.

Did she think I’d stolen someone’s I.D.? I was too afraid to open my mouth.

“There’s no way you’re old enough to be in AARP. How do you do it? Is it diet, genetics? Not smoking?”

With that, the fear instantly drained out of me.

For a few minutes, we talked about our health and exercise regimens, as if we were long-lost girlfriends from high school. Before we parted, I
told her how grateful I was for her kindness. I started to cry.

“The reason I was in Colorado Springs is because my brother is dying of cancer.”

Her face softened. “I’m so sorry.” Then she told me that her mother had been diagnosed with cancer this year.

We talked a little more about our families, and then it was time for me to go.

Vincent Carroll is The Denver Post's editorial page editor. He has been writing commentary on politics and public policy in Colorado since 1982 and was originally with the Rocky Mountain News, where he was also editor of the editorial pages until that newspaper gave up the ghost in 2009.

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